


When caring was an advantage

by justinmymindpalace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, John and Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Kisses, Loads of Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, More Fluff, More angst, RP, RP Style, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sorry Not Sorry, Unresolved Sexual Tension, first fic, mycroft being a terrible brother, not really any cases, s4 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justinmymindpalace/pseuds/justinmymindpalace
Summary: Brother’s aren’t always right. Verbatim ac litteratim. Sherlock battles with new feelings and facing up to the fact that he isn't actually a sociopath, resulting in a lot of angst and misunderstandings between them but the ultimate question is, will they realise the obvious issue at hand?If convenient, please see notes, if inconvenient please see them anyway for a little more information and translations :)Comments are more than welcome, I'd like to know what you all think of my fic!(Feel free to follow me on here and also on Instagram; funnily enough my username is justinmymindpalace)





	1. Rising tensions

**Author's Note:**

> Please don’t hate too much, I am very new to this and I haven’t published any fics before. It does start off RP style (because it was one yada, yada) but then it changes to a less tense style and it all merges to reflect certain changes between John and Sherlock but I shan’t say anymore before I end up revealing too much! Your comments and feedback is welcome, I’d like to know thoughts and please be gentle. 
> 
> Also, for those interested, the translation for ‘Verbatim ac litteratim' is word for word and letter for letter, just thought those Holmes boys would speak a little Latin, given their public school education, plus I like speaking a little Latin sometimes haha.
> 
> Thankyou so much and I hope you like it, just bear with the angst- it does subside ;)

**[I need you. SH]**

[Everything alright? Are you hurt or? JW]

**[I need you here. Now. SH]**

[Alright! On my way. Ten minutes max. JW]

**[Hurry John. Please. SH]**

John hurried as best he could, though did have an ounce of reservation. Only last night had they finished solving the complex murder case which had involved chasing a felonious middle aged man wielding a machete, no less. John’s suspicions weren’t in vain, for Sherlock's demands had previously involved something innocuous as a pen or tea, yet phrased as though his life were dependent on it. Nonetheless, he arrived within his promised ten minutes, panting furiously as he finally stood in the sitting room of 221B, calling out "What is it, Sherlock?!".

Sherlock looked up from his kitchen desk, he was meddling with his experiments again. "Ah John, I needed you for something". He could see John's face physically drop, a look of disappointment and then rising irritation at his flatmate: he'd really believed something was terribly wrong. Bit not good? A wave of guilt spread over Sherlock, he had too many feelings overpowering him at once and decided he couldn't keep up this façade any longer. He then whispered, almost hoarsely without giving John any direct eye contact "I think we need to talk".

Nostrils flared and hands clenched, John took several deep breaths to try and steady himself. After all, this situation was not unexpected. He wondered if reminding Sherlock of 'The Boy Who Cried Wolf' tale would do much good, but knew his lectures were usually ignored. Though John probably would never stop coming at the drop of a hat - the risk of losing Sherlock was a problem too upsetting to consider. Steading his breath, John leant back a little against the kitchen walls before clearing his throat, he ran the back of his palm over his forehead and ran his tongue along his bottom lip. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe we do," he huffed out, moving to stand opposite him, eyes surveying the mess on the table. He then motioned at Sherlock to continue, "Though, I'll let you go first.”

_______________________________________

Sherlock eyed the tension rising in John and this terrified him, this could all go so wrong. How could he admit to what he had been feeling recently, the only logical way to prevent John from knowing, would be to push him away. That way he could lead a normal life. Besides, it wasn't as though John had reciprocated any of the feelings Sherlock had been getting, at least not overtly in Sherlock's eyes. He kept his head down, forbidding John from meeting his complex gaze. Instead he tapped his fingers on the table, biding his time as he felt John feel physically more agitated and irritated with him. How had he let himself become like this? _Feeling_. It was so quiet that the ticking of John’s watch seemed to methodically pierce the atmosphere between them. Slowly, he pushed his case files to the side that wasn’t full of multiple, teetering piles of petri dishes or the precariously placed microscope and began to run his fingers erratically through his mop of curls. All he had to do was tell John he had some feelings that had arisen, _grown_ and he could no longer have him as his flatmate. "Do you want any tea?" he asked John quietly, knowing this was his favourite beverage since he drank approximately 5 cups every 14 hours and he saw John raise his brows in both amusement and almost in shock at his offer.

"What?", he grunted back in a huff at John who was still remaining silent. Sherlock then dramatically flounced out of his chair to the kettle and proceeded to pour him some, deciding that the question was rhetorical. Turning back, he placed the tea down on the coaster in front of John sharply and shifted from foot to foot awkwardly "I think the dynamic has changed between us".


	2. Fight or flight

John had known Sherlock long enough to be perplexed by his almost sheepish behaviour, and despite his annoyance at being called back so abruptly without explanation, he felt concern rising in his chest. After all, it was rather unlike Sherlock to behave this way when they were alone. He could only assume he had been brought home to debate something rather heavy... or to be told some unfortunate news. John licked his lips, looking at his mug for a few moments sceptically (he was not in the mood for a drink that had been meddled with) as he considered Sherlock's slightly bizarre statement. "Well. I suppose that was to be expected, right?" he cleared his throat, not meeting the taller man's eyes, "After... everything". He tried to cover up the choke that built up in his voice. Sherlock's death. His sudden resurrection. John's marriage and the subsequent divorce. How could things ever have stayed the same? He chanced a look at the other man, showing no outward signs of anger but mere hint of dejection.

Sherlock began to pace back and forth, clearly John was not getting the message. He needed to be gone. He thought it was _fairly obvious_ what he was insinuating but then he did have to remind himself that he had an above average mind and John, despite being clever, was just ordinary. Sometimes. _He was just fasc-_   Now was not the time for thoughts like that, he scolded himself by biting his bottom lip as he frantically tried to formulate his argument. Their friendship had an unbreakable bond; ever since the Fall nothing would prevent him from protecting John. When John had gotten married Sherlock felt bereft, the only man he had cared for he had lost (he wouldn’t tell John that was the real reason as to why he resorted to the drugs again) and when the couple had divorced he found it difficult to hide his elation at the prospect of John moving back in with him to 221b. The ordeal of the pain they had endured and he had caused. He still heard the nightmares. John’s shouts and muffled bloodied screams. He bit his lip harder, now feeling the blood vessels pumping hard against his teeth now. Sherlock paused and glanced momentarily up at John, bringing himself back into reality rather than dwelling in memories and to deducing his flatmate's response. He showed no anger which was good but it would be a certain eventuality after Sherlock revealed that he needed to leave him, to recover and eventually return to a healthy working relationship again. Platonic. _Purely_ platonic he told himself under his breath, mumbling. The guilt was almost overpowering though, he had heard the break in John's voice when he said 'After...everything' and it hurt like a new wound but this needed to be done, to protect John from Sherlock's confusing new feelings that he couldn't understand. "As I said John, we've changed" reiterating his point for sure clarity. He heard John take a sip of his tea, then another. His weight had shifted to his good leg, obviously he was finding the situation almost…damaging? Sherlock sighed, regaining eye contact with the floor panels, conscious he couldn’t reveal too much since eyes were the windows to the soul. "Flatmates isn't the correct term for us anymore John, I think..." and he was duly interrupted.

_______________________________________

 Whilst he was used to Sherlock's quirks, his pacing and rising agitation unsettled John, who for his part continued to watch him closely. He felt as though there was something he was missing, as though he was supposed to be able to fill in Sherlock's gaps. John regretted that he couldn't, for whatever Sherlock had to say was clearly of great import and difficulty. John felt his pulse rising, mouth becoming dry. As such, he reached for his tea, taking a sip as Sherlock spoke. Not just flat mates? John swallowed thickly, enough to need to cough as the hot tea burned its way down his throat. _Be patient with him_. "I think we're a bit more than flatmates, Sherlock, yes. Friends, I would've put it " and that would be to put it mildly. Sherlock must have deleted from the practically mechanical hard drive of his mind palace of when John told him he was his best friend. Idiot. Scrap that, git. What John thought they had certainly transcended the usual boundaries of platonic and romantic, rather straddling the two, yet John had presumed that was his inability to comprehend such a close alliance with another male. Not like comradeship like he’d experienced in the military, of course. Not like anything he'd felt for anyone before. He had been more certain, before Sherlock had jumped, of what he wanted for them and where he wanted it to go. Then his world, everything, was upturned. Now, however, he felt he had no idea at all. "B-no, just what is it you're getting at?" he pressed on determinedly.

Sherlock brought his hands to his face almost in agony, despite his great mind he really struggled in difficult social interactions and pressed hard on his temples, almost hard enough to create a small mark as he reverted to his mind palace in a hasty hope of finding information on how to act with John and confide in him what was truly wrong. He found nothing and his legs shook as his usually calm demeanour transformed, becoming incredibly tense and fraught. He tried to loosen his collar as he felt his face heat up and tried to steady his now almost rasping breath. Must breathe. Must think. Suddenly he slammed his balled fists into the table "You just don't get it John, you won't understand!" he blurted out in his raised baritone voice and found himself forcing back a swarm of emotions. He gulped in an attempt to regain composure. Biting at his lip firmly again, he knew they would most likely bruise at this rate but he no longer cared. He could see that John was taken aback as he stepped away from the table slightly and in a panic Sherlock’s wild eyes fleeted around the room, this was not the time for tears in front of John. John couldn't see him cry. Stupid, stupid H2O+NaCl interfering and brimming in his now cerulean eyes, he felt the small drops escaping and falling over his porcelain skin, finding the path along his soft skin, cheekbones, chin to floor. Mycroft had always warned him. He’d told him to listen to his advice, to isolate himself from feelings ‘I do mean it dearest brother, verbatim ac litteratim’.

He'd wrecked everything now, that was not what he had envisaged. He was battling his fight or flight complex as he hovered in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts so far? Please be kind!


	3. The new silence

As Sherlock's composure slipped away in pieces, John became increasingly concerned that Sherlock was on the verge of a panic attack. The doctor in him knew to give him space, but as Sherlock's friend, all he wanted to do was comfort him. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation to John, the desire to simply hold the man as though that would somehow stop all the turbulent thoughts speeding through Sherlock's brain. What he did was neither, terrified of cocking it all up. It was on a knife-edge; he could sense it. Though what he thought (or hoped) could not be confused with what John perceived as reality. Seeing Sherlock hover as he began to cry, however, finally made him move from where he has previously been near rooted to the spot. Placing his tea down, he took a few steps toward him, a tentative hand coming to rest on the detective's bicep. He squeezed gently, trying not to respond to the wetness in Sherlock's eyes, "It's only me, Sherlock. It's only me. Whatever it is... I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry that I don't know or understand what you're saying to me, not yet. But do you see that I can't..." he swallowed, looking around his face rather than in his eyes, "That I can't risk misinterpreting."

Sherlock raised his watery eyes and tried to meet John's gaze, almost ashamed of the weakness he had just displayed to him. Human. John was too understanding, Sherlock felt as though he were in a perilous situation and released a long, slow but shaken breath as he allowed another tear to roll down his face, over his structured cheekbones. John's hand on his arm comforted him and he felt himself return to normality, the panic drifting, ebbing away from his body. His body had betrayed him but John had understood. In this, Sherlock realised John meant too much to him and hesitantly the pair locked eyes, trying to read one another's thoughts; for once Sherlock was lost for words entirely. Even insults which came naturally to him, the ones he used daily as a defence mechanism were far from him. He dropped his gaze, not wanting John to see too much of his pain. "Thankyou for…that…and I'm sorry" Sherlock shyly uttered, still ashamed of his impulsive actions. Gently Sherlock lifted his arm up to rest it upon the doctor's shoulder out of needing support in case his legs gave way in the aftermath and they both fell quiet, the faint lull of cars outside now the only noise surrounding their hushed breaths. Normally, John was the one who couldn't read Sherlock's signals but here this had just been reversed as Sherlock stuttered and stammered at his friend "What do you mean by you 'can't risk misinterpreting' John?"

_______________________________________

Despite the situation not being one of familiarity, John could at least ascertain the meaning of some of his behaviours. After all, the meaning of tears unified all of humanity, and although he would rather not ever see Sherlock cry, they gave him a glimpse inside. The temptation was, of course, to gently wipe them away, yet John still feared being too familiar. Indeed, he still feared giving too much away, of caving in and releasing all he had tried to move on from with his friend's passing. So he focuses on their breathing, of the warmth emanating from Sherlock's body, on the scent of his freshly laundered shirt (the purple one John had ironed only that morning, he noticed). Somehow, that made the tightness in his chest increase. "There's nothing for you to apologise for. You didn't hurt me; it's fine," he whispered, not daring to be any louder. Especially not when Sherlock had his arm draping over his shoulder. He felt almost like if he did something too brash or too loud, Sherlock would bolt like a startled deer. It did leave his hand free, however, to lightly rest on his back. Lightly, he stroked up and down, keep the rhythm steady and repetitive. "Look, this is important, isn't it? What you want to talk about, what you need to tell me. So if it's important, I need to get it right. It's..." he sighed softly, "Like all of science. If you start hypothesising, you'll only see what you're looking for. So I just want to listen, and if you can, Sherlock, I'd like you to be as honest and forthright as possible. Yeah?" John tilted his head as he looked up at him, smiling softly, "And then maybe you won't look so much like I've just done something awful to you," he chuckled quietly, raising his hand to finally ( _finally_ ) dry his cheek.

Sherlock had gasped internally, fluttering inside when John had comforted him by stroking his back and wiping away his tears, it felt so different to any human contact he’d had before, no-one had made him feel like this. Deep down, he knew he was not a sociopath, but that he just lacked experience of love or the security of comfort, even from his childhood. John’s support relieved Sherlock and all his worries left him, but he needed to confess and open up to John with the truth. Mycroft had always said caring was not an advantage but he was beginning to ponder if his brother was right. It was now or never. He removed his arm from the doctor’s shoulder and shifted about in his purple shirt, worrying the bottom edge with his fingers and rubbing out newly-made creases and inhaled a long, deep breath. “When I first met you, I knew you were an amazing, fantastic man, you have always been there for me and all those things you have done um…”. John’s face was melting into a new, even softer emotion, Sherlock didn’t recognise or comprehend this look and continued on, he could ascertain the look later, “…and the way I have felt about you has changed and I know you don’t feel the same way, so the only thing I can do is ask you to leave. That way we can both get on with our lives”. Sherlock had proven tactless many times, and he recalled being called ‘spectacularly ignorant’ by John all those years ago but his bluntness was just his way, he knew no better, as he began to fumble with the few test tubes on the table and adding some unidentifiable mould from one of his petri dishes, purposefully ignoring John so he wouldn’t see the hurt. A different silence had fallen on 221b.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with, yes it got angsty there, phew but I'll stop with the angst very soon. I promise.


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the angst over yet? ;)

Whilst he had enjoyed their moment of almost tender proximity, John felt partly relieved when Sherlock moved away. He felt like he could breathe, like his heart rate might see fit to calm down by even several beats. Yet as Sherlock prepared himself, looking so uncertain, John knew he possibly wouldn't be feeling any calmer for quite some time. Yet he listened. Intently. He made sure he made no move to speak and interrupt until he was certain he had finished. John had even attempted to school his expression into one of neutrality, yet... when Sherlock Holmes sounded alarmingly close to confessing 'sentiment' for you, John wasn't sure it was possible. He wasn't sure it was possible to breathe, either. Not to think. Certainly not to speak. So he stared, lips parted and eyes wide, he stared. The Earth did not shatter, despite his feeling that that should happen. Nor did he suddenly wake up, sweaty and cold. He had to respond. It dawned on him quite suddenly that he had to do something. "What? I've got to leave?" he croaked out, "Do I get no say? No chance to defend myself? Are you even going to ask me what I think, Sherlock? What I feel? After what just happened? God." John paused to take a breath, "You don't get to write me off that easily. No bloody chance."

Sherlock had remained resolved and falsely fixated on his experiment as he had waited for John’s inevitably infuriated response and he pretended to both ignore what was going to happen and became absorbed in his own small world. John’s pause seemed to go on for eternity and he knew he had crushed him, for the first time since his ‘death’ and it hurt, he felt a strong pang in his chest and tried to ignore the agony he was in. He got up from his chair and began to walk out of the kitchen and then half-ran towards his bedroom when a strong grip caught his arm and he turned around to face John, his instinct telling him to fire off some typical morose remark but then closely examined him. He could tell from the blood that had risen to his cheeks and his quickened pulse that John was not going to go without a fight and he should at least listen to his defence. God this was not going to help, only end up with himself in humiliation. “Ok fine then. What do you think? What do you feel?” he snapped, employing his sarcastic tone to hide his inner emotional turmoil.

It really wasn't unexpected that Sherlock would try and remove himself. John would have readily done the same, near wishing it was not him in this situation. Yet, if what Sherlock spoke of was what he thought it was, then he considered himself indescribably lucky. He just wished for someone else's responses, to know how to handle this correctly. But he knew Sherlock better than anyone, surely? That’s what everyone told him. So that meant all he needed to consider was how the man would like to have his reply delivered. Even with his firm grip, his stance was relaxed, too softened by Sherlock's courage to be hard, and too concerned about his suggested departure to be angry. "I think that I don't want to leave, that I see no reason to. I think..." he took a breath, mustering his own courage, "You are... the most incredible person I have ever met. I think y-you are the man that... gave me a reason to keep going. A man that showed me life is worth continuing. Because... it is. With you. If you're with me. That's... how I want it to be. I want..." John cleared his throat, mouth barren, "To be with you. Yeah? Always. Permanently. I can’t imagine my life without you". Whilst he was a writer of sorts, John was by no means a poet in his speech, especially not when emotions were involved. It was difficult, nearly impossible. He was certain of his feelings, even if they were difficult to relate. He’d never fully let on to Sherlock about the truth. Hadn’t the man wondered why he hadn’t had any recent one night stands or relationships? Yet what did he have to fear now, after Sherlock's confessions? Though it was fear he felt all the same, his hand fisted in the material of Sherlock's shirt as though that alone could convince him of his depth of regard.

Sherlock’s mouth gaped wide as he processed what John had just said to him. John wanted to be…with him…always. Permanently. Sherlock brushed his fingers over the fist in his silk shirt and then brought his own fingers to his mouth and lips in thought, then looked down at his wrist as he fiddled with his Rolex (a present from Mummy to replace his Rotary one last Christmas) before taking a breath and mouthing coyly as he tried to sound out the words “Oh. You want…me?”, pointing towards his heart. His breath hitched as he reached out and then touched John’s checked shirt, still in awe of how perfectly the doctor had expressed himself, with such knowing. John had understood him, he hadn’t mocked him but reciprocated his feelings and it was an overpowering sensation that came over him like never before. “How long have you felt that way John?...” he asked in his lower tone which was still barely audible. 

_______________________________________

Breathing slowly, John counted the seconds. After all, it wouldn't do to faint away like a bloody maiden, would it? That was embarrassment he could've done without, so all he could do was breathe. And focus. On Sherlock's hand briefly covering his own, then touching those plush lips. Those long, violinists’ fingers which appeared graceful even as they did something as inane as fiddling with a watch. What broke his focus, however, was when they finally rested on his own body. It wouldn't have surprised him if Sherlock could feel his heart hammering away. "I do want you, yeah," he smiled, voice rasping and quiet, his gaze softening as he looked to the other man's almost bewildered expression. It was fondness that washed over him, then, and he covered Sherlock's hand, keeping it in place in reassurance. After all, the man was more than welcome to touch. "I'd stopped counting a while ago. That's... that's how you move on, apparently," he looked down to his callused hand covering Sherlock's, "I was never quite as brave as you to bring it up. I... was, though. Eventually. Then you had the daft idea of flinging yourself off a building." To show he was not angry, he looked up with a small, cheeky smile, and gave the man a gentle nudge.

Just by the brief touching of their fingertips, then their hands, Sherlock knew John was being sincere and his heart leapt inside of him. Sherlock leant over the doctor and spoke gently into his ear “You are the bravest man I know, I-I was confused. I’m so glad to have you in my life and I’d do anything, and will do anything to protect you from harm,” he choked out, with every ounce of his heart pouring into his words before muttering “Plus I’m never letting my fat, cake-eating brother Mycroft advise me on relationships ever again”. He heard John laugh at that and allowed himself to smile a little. He decided it was also categorical to not to think about or mention the danger he continually put them both in on his wild escapades on cases.

John felt Sherlock come closer more than he saw it, everything seeming to happen at such speed that he could barely keep up. Equally, the seconds between talking felt like an eternity; John didn't know what to think at all. He would’ve quite liked to have stopped thinking, for that matter, and the warm breath against his ear appeared to do just the trick. His eyes slipped shut, hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention as his skin tingled all the way down his back. John regretted that he could barely concentrate on what Sherlock said, instead gently leaning his body against the detective’s, relishing their proximity. Their proximity, which in the next second had become the mere millimetres their shirts provided. Sherlock then lightly pressed himself up against John to embrace him in a hug. It may have not been the best hug (Sherlock was still new to all this and his body was cardboard stiff) but according to research Sherlock had done, it was the best course of action to show his true feelings. It took John a moment to realise what the action was, and couldn't help but chuckle softly as he reached up to wrap his arms around Sherlock's shoulders. Settled, he leant his head against the top of Sherlock’s chest, and suddenly felt as though all the tension had left his body, "That mean you're not going to throw me out on my arse then?".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're liking this, 2 more chapters left to go... Comments are appreciated


	5. Necessary affirmations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one I'm afraid, the next one is very long though I can assure you.

Sherlock felt at peace with John’s arms wrapped around his neck, and relaxed into John’s warm and comforting form, savouring the moment and breathing in his scent. So this was what it felt like, to be loved and cared about. No wonder he was always reprimanded for his lack of empathy with some of his clients. He pulled back to breathe properly again, allowing his heart beat to settle and to fully look at his beloved John once more. He picked up John’s hand and stroked at the doctor’s fingers before interweaving them with his own and looking at their joined hands, running his thumb in circles over John’s palm. “I am not going to let you leave John, no. I shouldn’t have said that earlier, I was panicking for I couldn’t face living with you each day and cope with you not sharing the feelings I had and it was my only option.” He looked deeply into John’s eyes to show his former regret, letting John see inside the real him. “Besides, I always need my doctor and blogger to help me on my cases, don’t I?” and his face broke into a soft grin.

They should've done that a while ago, John decided. Hugging Sherlock, although initially rigid, was rather nice and definitely to be repeated. As was holding his hand. It wasn't the first time they'd done it, perhaps the first since their declarations, but to think that it wasn't the last made him smile brightly. He made sure to meet Sherlock's eyes, even though he wanted to look at their hands, barely believing what had just transpired. It hadn't settled in. He knew that. He wasn't panicking, for one. "Course you do, you absolute git," he grinned back, "Had me worried." John gave his hand a squeeze, considering the desire he felt to kiss him. Somehow he felt like despite all this, that might be pushing it. So all he did was place his free hand in the centre of Sherlock's chest, looking up at him with the admiration he had never been too scared to show, "I think we'll probably both want a bit of clarification, then. Right? To... put a name to this. I'm guessing you don't want 'flatmates' to be the term, right?" Childish? Perhaps. But he felt like it was an affirmation they both needed.

The hand in his chest was the loveliest feeling and he sensed the hunger in John’s eyes for more but he knew it would be too much for an already rather eventful evening. “You are more than my flatmate John of course, what about close friend? Accomplice?” he then pulled a serious and morose face but then winked at John to show he was only being flippant and joking before he ended upsetting him again. The problem was, what were they now? They hadn’t kissed yet but Sherlock resided in the fact that they had both declared their feelings for one another. John raised his eyebrows for the second time that evening at Sherlock's thinking out loud, trying to look distinctly unimpressed. What he most likely looked was distinctly amused, knowing the man well enough to understand the impish glint in his eyes as he tried to wind him up a little. "Accomplice? I see, I see," he smirked, about to joke about accomplices not getting access to the more tender affections, and then deciding against it. They'd got time. Plenty of time. “Well, how about we go on a few dates and see where that takes us? ? I don’t mind stating we are in a romantic entanglement or ‘dating’ as you would say. Is that agreeable? Or…” Sherlock’s nose crinkled up at ‘date’ with evident distaste of what he considered an adolescent term, before he faltered at the end of his statement. “Are you sure that this is what you want, because I’m not perfect and I want to make sure that you aren’t making the wrong decision, I want the best for you John”. Even when he said this aloud he felt like he was acting out scenes from one of the terrible soap operas or terribly boring reality dating shows John was inclined towards on Friday nights after their weekly takeaway of fish and chips. Sherlock had still retained residual apprehension when he asked about them attempting dating, obviously still uneasy as to whether he was saying the right thing but John’s reaction seemed positive and swathed in what appeared to be sheer romantic interest which Sherlock deduced as John’s pupils dilated. Any of Sherlock’s worries were rid by John, softly rubbing the taller man’s chest as reassuringly as he could manage, "Remember Sherlock. Neither of us are perfect - no one is. So don't worry about that. All we've got to focus on is if this is good for both of us, right? So dating is a great way to do that. Let's just... give it a go. See how we do. What do you reckon?" he smiled gently in assurance. “I ‘reckon’ John, that would be certainly more than satisfactory” Sherlock sighed as their bodies lingered in their shadows, bathing in the atmosphere of each other; a gentle, glowing warmth. Sherlock smoothly clasped John’s lower arm just below the elbow fondly before turning on his heel and walking over to the edge of the living room. Looking out of the window onto the streets, he could see how dusk had now fully fallen and only a few people were mulling outside preparing to leave for their nights out. How exceedingly dull he thought, before striding towards the coat rack unaware that John was yet to move from the kitchen, still almost as though he had been entranced. “Aren’t you coming?” Sherlock huffed, throwing on his black Belstaff in a determined fashion, his collar not yet upturned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue very long ending chapter, thanks for bearing with this, I tried haha! Comments greatly appreciated.


	6. Bond and blankets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE COMMENT!!!  
> So, here's the final chapter.  
> I've put a warning where the rating goes up a little but you can scroll past it if you're not down for that and continue with the last paragraph. 
> 
> Depending on whether you liked this or not, I may write some more fics. I've got quite a few ideas and may link them (albeit tenuous links) and make it a small series/collection, with more cases for you to get your teeth into. Grab yourself a cuppa and a biscuit and please enjoy this final chapter instalment. Thankyou for reading all this! :)

It never did take much prompting for John to become a little more flirtatious, and now Sherlock had a confirmed interest in him, he didn't at all mind upping the ante. Naturally it mostly involved coy smiles and a cocky quirked brow, as even after all this time, he was learning how one was supposed to flirt with Sherlock Holmes. Evidently, you had to do a better job than he had as Sherlock quite swiftly buggered off out of the kitchen to go elsewhere. John wasn't sure he was meant to follow until he heard the demand, Sherlock's voice a sharp contrast to the soft, cautious tones of the last ten minutes. 

Arms folded, he gave his friend an unimpressed look, watching him fiddle with his ridiculous coat. Then, realisation dawned, and he unfolded his arms, "Hang on, we're going now?" he questioned dumbly, making his way to don his jacket nonetheless, "No. Of course we are. What am I thinking. Go on then. Lead the way." He snorted in fond amusement, and gave Sherlock a hearty shove back toward the stairs, following him close behind. "At least, this better be for our date, and not just since Greg's texted you about some poor bastard's demise."

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The consulting detective hurried off down the stairs of the flat, two steps at a time, leaving John behind at an almost bolting speed before halfway freezing and calling out “I need my scarf!”, ignoring the doctor’s questions initially. He’d never forgotten his scarf before, he was always so meticulous and repetitive in his actions. The evening had thrown him off course in his urging need to impress John somehow, in thanks. Flustered, he sped down the rest of the steps before reaching the bottom and frantically tried to sort out his collar in vain before John noticed he was stressed and subsequently struggling. “Yes John, we are going out. What else is there to do?” he mumbled up at John who was holding up his favourite blue scarf with a lopsided grin before licking his lips. It was hard to not admire John in the low light without feeling a settling warmth curse through his veins. “I can think of lots of things we can do Sher, none of which involve bumping into Anderson, having an argument with him or getting a case from Lestrade which sends us running all over London in the cold” John replied, a smirk now on his face as he watched Sherlock calm then pull a slight face at the nickname. “I suppose at least you didn’t call me something disgusting like ‘babe’” Sherlock replied as he traipsed back up the stairs in defeat. “Hmm, babe could work” John challenged, which eventually resulted in John heaving with laughter as Sherlock did his full dramatics of the drama queen glare, stomping of his feet up the last few steps and huffing. As they walked back into the cosy mess littered with case notes that they called their living room, John made to grab some scotch he’d had tucked away in the top cupboard for special occasions which Mrs Hudson had given them for their first Christmas in the flat all that time ago. Tonight called for some celebration.

Sherlock flopped down onto the leather sofa and pushed back into the familiar creases, realising it was just as comfy as his favourite chair and recollected his thoughts which seemed to be swirling around him this evening. How lucky he was to have this man as _his._ Though he better not stop him from catching criminals forever, Sherlock thought to himself, before humming a tune which he deemed suitable for a new violin concerto. He’d compose it later and dedicate it especially for John.

Pouring two glasses of scotch, more as a gesture for Sherlock as he knew Sherlock wouldn’t touch the drink, John turned from the kitchen to look into the living room. He couldn’t help the loving look he wore as he watched _his_ Sherlock settled and humming a tasteful tune (not one of his 3am high pitched, frantic and not exactly melodious pieces he was prone to) with his legs outstretched and at peace, it felt like the world had almost righted itself. Just the two of them, against the world. Whisky tumblers in hand, John made his way into the dimly lit living room and placed the scotches down before making Sherlock budge up slightly. “Lie down for me, I need to inspect your lips- oi, don’t give me that look, that wasn’t a tacky line, I genuinely want to check you didn’t burst a blood vessel earlier when you kept biting your lower lip-yes, I did see that, now just lie back in my lap”. Sherlock shuffled around so his head was in John’s lap, letting his long legs sprawl languidly over the length of the sofa and watched with intensity as John carefully drew his two fingers over Sherlock’s lips with medical scrutiny. Watching John methodically probe at his cupid bow lips with such care was entrancing, and Sherlock’s wide eyed staring was broken with a reassuring smile when John decided there was no real injury. He then started to run his fingers carefully through Sherlock’s curls, massaging his scalp with precision, tenderly. Sherlock’s eyes closed and he hummed as the sensation of John’s caress warmed him to the core, the small ministrations soothing him beyond belief. The repetitious patterns made by John's nimble fingers had him almost dozing off yet craving for more, this was better than any drug. John suddenly pulled his phone out of his pocket and began typing or rather punching out a text and hitting send instantly. Blinking open his eyes as he realised the massage had stopped, he fluttered his lashes subconsciously before John pushed Sherlock up against the worn arm of the brown leather sofa.

 “Where are you going?” Sherlock grumbled, then frowning with concern as he filled with dread, pushing himself up onto his elbows as John padded out of the living room without a glance backward. Maybe he had changed his mind.

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**(FYI skip this bit if you aren't up for a slightly mature scene)**

It wasn’t long before John returned and he wasn’t empty handed. In fact, his arms were piled high with things. “I’ve brought both our pyjamas and a blanket because I didn’t want you getting cold and then getting all tetchy about it but I also thought we could watch a Bond film together”, nodding his head towards the TV before putting everything down onto the wooden coffee table. Sherlock’s jaw dropped, “but then, why did you…?”. John shook his head gently,  “Stop jumping to conclusions, I just texted your brother to tell him to stop giving you piss-poor advice on relationships because you got far too disordered by it and he was totally wrong. Plus, I told him to turn off the CCTV indefinitely, else he may see footage he’d rather not ever see” John grinned.  He sank down next to Sherlock, creating a soft dip in the cushions, then sat forward after a contented sigh to sip at his own glass of scotch. Afterwards, he carefully pulled Sherlock closer and unbuttoned his shirt for him. He desperately tried to ignore the consulting detectives quickened breathing and focused on helping him dress into his pyjamas, trying to not swallow too loudly when he saw the expanse of Sherlock's lightly defined chest in front of him. Carefully, he lifted Sherlock's arms as he took hold of the shirt sleeves and helped him into his pyjama top by pulling the shirt down over his dark brown curls with a struggle. Sherlock's head was bowed in embarrassment, evidently feeling self-conscious of John having seen any of his scars but John hushed him, instead assisting him with putting his striped cotton pyjama bottoms on and murmuring with all the breath he could muster "It's all fine, we all have our scars, hell look at me but you're...stunning, just look at your cheekbones for starters". He let Sherlock blush, ignoring any of his incoherent-possibly-deflective-denial-y mutterings as he just squeezed his wrists and palms a few times to try and dispel any of Sherlock's diffidence. He then changed himself into an worn, tight white T-shirt that showed his slightly muscled form and his favourite plaid red tartan shorts, leaving Sherlock mesmerised and gaping slightly open mouthed next to him as he fumbled for the damned remote. He felt the soft woollen blanket get draped over his thighs and the violinist’s fingers that made their way to grasp his own, still tentative. He turned his head and nodded, preempting Sherlock’s question of “Can we?” and leant forward, letting Sherlock press his warm cupid bow lips against his. It felt like _heaven_. It was only strictly speaking a chaste kiss, a gentle fusion, but a kiss nonetheless. Shuffling the blankets, he laid Sherlock onto his back on the sofa and climbed atop his thighs and uttered “We won’t rush anything alright? If you want to stop, it's fine”. He knew Sherlock was inexperienced and sensitive, despite what he sometimes claimed. Their lips met once more as Sherlock dragged John down to him by his shoulders, unable to resist temptation, frantically desperate for more, before John slowed the pace and let them explore each other’s mouths lovingly. It started off as clumsy but Sherlock swiftly learnt to follow John’s direction and soon enough the pressure increased, both finding themselves moaning quite loudly as tongues probed at the other's lips. Sherlock was slightly nipping (of course he'd be a quick learner) and was letting his hands roam all over John's chest and grazing fingertips over his nipples through the shirt, both desperately exploring what they had had yearned for, for years. John didn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock too soon (or wake and shock Mrs Hudson) and reluctantly pulled back slightly, feeling the familiar burn of arousal coil low in his stomach as Sherlock began unconsciously lifting and undulating his hips to meet with John’s. Breathless, they came apart gasping and panting, before they just grinned at one another. Shaking his head in disbelief at Sherlock's sheer enthusiasm, John raised his left brown and sniggered, “You seem to reduce me to a bloody teenager, you know” and Sherlock nodded in agreement before John poked him in the ribs with the curly haired detective feigning it hurt with a loud “Ow!” before they both collapsed into a fit laughter, their hands firmly linked. Sherlock couldn’t remember a time that he’d felt this happy and at ease in a long while.

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Readjusting the blue blanket once more (which in the slightly-more-than-kissing session had managed to migrate to the floor) John lay down and settled his head to rest upon Sherlock’s chest, the TV just buzzing like white noise; he’d forgotten about setting up the film entirely. Quiet breaths were exchanged as they embraced each other’s company, the quiet hubbub of London nightlife in the background. No words were needed. Sleep nagged at the pair and eventually Sherlock’s emotional outburst exhaustion set in, despite his determinedness to stay awake and catalogue everything to his special memories section of his Mind Palace, and let his eyelids sag. There were barely a few seconds between the pair falling asleep but John felt Sherlock squeeze his palm firmly and slide his long limbs over John’s possessively and whisper a sleepy “forever mine, my John” as he drifted off. John’s heart almost burst, he didn’t care about how soppy he was acting as he watched Sherlock make a contented huffing noise, listening to his breathing as it slowed into a sleeping pattern. Leaning over, John placed a lingering kiss to Sherlock’s forehead and whispered back "God, I love you" to his supposedly fast asleep and incredibly handsome consulting detective, admiring his normally sharp features now softened by slumber. He then shifted himself closer, to settle and rest more firmly against the crook of Sherlock’s neck to sleep but felt his hand get squeezed back tightly once more as a silent, somnolent reciprocation of John’s heartfelt proclamation. Trust him. Nothing else mattered, they were together: _finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!  
>  Thoughts? Comments? Hope you liked it, as I've said many a time, I'm very new to all this but if I get interest I plan on doing a sort of sequel. Who knows! If you aren't following me already, you can always follow me on Instagram: justinmymindpalace as I'm always active there. Have a lovely day! :)  
> Please comment because I REALLY DO want your thoughts!!!


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